White Meat Flight

This week I hosted my second annual turkey drawing challenge, an event that elicited surprisingly strong responses from Whitecastle and NiceDoc this year and as always, drew even more awesome commentary from Sister Claire- which got us talking about the wild turkeys in her neighborhood who are conspicuously absent this week. My mind immediately suspected foul play on the neighbors' part but Sister Claire was much less sinister, and also showed much greater faith in the turkeys. She believes that they sensed Thanksgiving's arrival and fled north to Canada, where Thanksgiving has already been celebrated (being much closer to Plymouth, Canadian Pilgrims arrived much earlier, hence celebrating Thanksgiving in early October). No wonder the eagle beat out turkey as national bird. An eagle would never flee to Canada.

Smelling Sweet

I'd like to think of myself as something good with words.  Faces, I may not remember, but names, I do.  But perhaps all that is just something I'd like to believe, because I seem to have a tendency of forgetting what I ought not to.  There is, of course, that story from Ms. Cavanagh's history class, when she took attendance and asked if "Jason" was here, and I, for whatever reason, had it stuck in my mind that the Jasons of our grade were Claffey and Cyrene, and turned to Jason Rusman next to me to ask, "Who the heck is Jason?" 

Then there was the time I misspelled Gak's name (and tried to play it off as a typo).  And then there was last night, when I got an e-vite and could not piece together who it was from or how I knew those people.  It took me a good seven minutes, and the thought process went something like this...

"The Fairmont sounds familiar... I wonder why I know this name.  I must have just learned it..." (I was just there on Saturday)
"Dave?  Jeff?  Tim?  Who are these people.  I do not know any of these names."  (I have known Tim for four years)
"I wonder how I even got on this list."  (I just saw Tim- and met Dave- on Saturday.  At the Fairmont.)
"Maybe they sent it to the wrong address... though everything sounds oddly familiar..."

I don't know what's going to leak out of my brain next.  But I'm worried, people.  Very worried.  Perhaps you should all send me some gingko biloba and pin it to my lapel so I don't forget to take it.

Opened the Window

What would possess someone to spell my (first) name wrong?  I don't understand.

Sometimes, I wish I had known or seen certain people as kids on the playground.  Sometimes, I feel like I already have.

Moi: My friend says that all the cool kids in her division pronounce it ark instead of A-H-R-Q [the way we do].

Whitecastle: I bet our division gets more ark money than hers.

Well, then. 

Yesterday was the day of my annual flu shot, what should have easily been one of the happiest days of the year (just behind Thanksgiving, Free Cone Day, and any day at the beach).  There's something about getting a shot for free, having everything be so easy, and all these health professionals warmly greeting me, that makes me feel like I've accomplished something and served the Common Good.  It's as if, by virtue of getting the shot, I'm acing that physical I haven't had in years.  But all this was ruined yesterday by a flustered nurse, who had to confirm three times that I should not get a TB skin test.  (I was also there for a TB screening, but I test positive every time so there's no need for a test.  Let me cough on you sometimes, you'll see.)  Her worst crime, however, was not giving me a band aid.  I know.  A band aid is half the reason why I get a flu shot in the first place.  The second half is the freebies.  The feel good stuff are just traces compared to band aids and chocolates.  Without a band aid, I bled all over my shirt.  Which helped with the street cred, but did not look professional.  ("Is that from food?" "No, Young Bo', I did not rub my mouth on my shoulders.")  Which of course meant that I had to google stain removal tips at work.  Which decreased my productivity.  And probably cost a few thousand lives.  I hope you're happy, Stingy Nurse.

Goings On Around Town

Mended: My Puma backpack.  By my mother.  It's the coolest backpack I will ever own.  Kids on the D.C. subways, passerby on Geneva streets, have all stopped to say so. 

z

Spotted (in a web of her own lies): One Miss Lenny Charles.

Moi: That's ridiculous.  Why'd you say it?

Lenny: I couldn't think of a better excuse.

Moi: Couldn't you just not reply [to the mass email]? 

Lenny: Now, that's a whole new paradigm.

z

 Shamed: Spelling teachers.  Parked next to a (pyramid scheme) Herbal Life van last night who directed people to a  website with "loose weight naturally" as part of the address.

z

Still to Do: Patch jeans.  Call Registrar.  Sort through 60 tiny bottles of shampoo.

Forecast: Getting colder outside, staying sunny inside.  I have fresh laundry, there's nothing stopping me.

Nothing but the Vertitas

Just spent two plus hours updating and reformatting my curriculum vitae. (Apparently, I just needed to space things out enough to outgrow the ol' resume and graduate into CV territory)

It's spanking new, beautiful, and just waiting for someone to hire me and/or accept me into their program.

Saturday Morning Listings

List of Disdain:

Tags on blankets, sheets, and clothes. Wet socks. Cover letters.

Lotion/eye drops. Plain potato chips. Vacuuming.

List of Affections:

Dry socks. Remixed hymns. Having a cup of water on my desk/nightstand.

Good teachers. Funny odd and funny haha. Sriracha + ketchup on anything.


Eating yogurt with granola reminds me of Thorne.

Whirl Wind World

Do you live in Chicago? Do you know anyone there? Have you ever been? Would you like to go?

I am apparently heading for the Windy City in a little over a week. All of this was planned in about five hours so any information you could give would be much appreciated. This week has been just a little hectic. I rewrote my personal statement. Filled out some forms. Organized a work happy hour. Went to a church conference. And in the meanwhile, my list of people to ask for references (and consequently, thank you notes to write) doubled. I have chapters of reading I've neglected, a problem set I'm not sure how to solve, and oh, my mom keeps tricking me into going home. All in all, it has not been an easy week. But it sure has been good to the stomach. Between going home frequently and a sudden increase in lunchtime conferences, I've been feasting on leftovers for two weeks now. If Y2K was to happen right now, I'd be stocked and ready to go. Well, almost ready. My pants don't fit anymore.

Money Roars

What does a $48K per year tuition buy? A damn good mascot. One that is, say, big enough to fit your employee, bears enough resemblance to the animal you'd like to represent, and also civilized enough to be clothed. Compare the bears of the Bo' and "Polar Bear Caves" of New Hampshire.

Your Smart Aleck of the Day

(on a collaborator's change from an innocuous name to one not so much so)

Chief: They changed their name to Buccaneers?

Whitecastle: It was either that or Maverick.

Going Home Again

Apologies to one Mr. Yuan. My time up north ran out before I had a time to see you.  They were 24 jampacked hours.

In the few times I've visited the Bo' since graduation, certain routines have become expected:  I will see Riles on Saturday morning, almost always miss the Band Man on Friday, and bump into P Ballin' without meaning to (though I should mean to, because she's certifiably the best dressed prof on campus).  I will have at least one meal with Lisa, Bobby, and Seames, and love it because of them.  And no matter how much time I spend with Megan, it will feel too short.  Such are my post-Bo' rituals.  This weekend was no different, but included a few extra gems:

* The presence of other people my age.  On campus.  As if we belong there.  Walking to Thorne to felt Gak and Vannie brought some strange deja vus, in a very good way.

*Winning at Scattergories-- you know what?  I don't need Boggle to be awesome.  (The sausage pizza preceding Scattergories was also stupendous)

* Laughing at dinner with Chris, who was donning a Barack shirt ironically and doing his best impression of an "intense childhood in Ghana."  We probably haven't eaten dinner together since sophomore year. 

* An excursion to Freeport that yielded new clothes and a better yet, a Bo' student discount. (Gak probably didn't enjoy the trip as much, but whatever, he got to pretend to be a bodyguard)

* A moment alone with Susie.  Still the best facilitator and big-picturer I've ever met.

Of course, the weekend was not without its demerits, like when Lisa and I did a round through Joshua's and realized that we had no one to say hi to.  Or the same thing happening a day later with Jenny in Druck.  Or the realization that Riles continues to not only know better bands than I do, but also more authentic Asian restaurants in the area.  And that random Chinese people abroad also approach her to speak Chinese.  Despite the fact that she's a white professor and in her fifties (?).  She is both out Chinese-ing and out-cooling me on every level.  That's a thought I'll need more than a weekend to decompress.

Losing Face

It happened again. This time, I was walking down my street and minding my own business when the woman in front of me turned around. I smiled at her. She smiled back. And then started speaking to me in Chinese. This time it wasn't even a dialect I understand. Do I look like I have a big red splotch on my face with little yellow stars? (though my flag would be red with a white sun in a blue square) Why do strangers think it's OK to just start speaking to me in Chinese?

I was in KASA for 3 years and only one person ever asked if I was Korean, yet three minutes down my street and old ladies think it's OK to come up and chat with me.

(on hearing upon the phenomenon a few months ago)

Mrs. Cho: Aren't you considered the most white washed in your family?

Moi: Oh, the irony isn't lost on me at all.

Does a Buddy Good

Lenny and I had originally planned a grub crawl to the South End tonight.  Then we considered the walking and price tag that would accomplish such a feat and ended up getting $3 sandwiches in Chinatown (a 50 cent hike- outrageous!). 

For weeks now, moms from everywhere have been telling us to stay away from White Rabbit candies, bubble tea, and anything else that might remotely contain milk in Chinatown.  But I hadn't had good, lukewarm bubble tea with soft, chewy pearls for awhile, so our discussion went something like this:

Moi: How do you feel about melamine in your drink?  They say it might be in bubble tea.

Lenny: But it's so good.

Moi: That's what I figured, too.

So we had some bubble tea that, incidentally, cost as much as the sandwiches. By the by, y'alls all know that Lenny is a girl, right?  She doesn't like it when people think she's a boy.  Or that her name is Lenny.  But  sometimes I forget to introduce her by her real name.  Do you know how many years you must dedicate to calling someone by a nickname you made up that you would forget their real name?  A lot of years.  We've changed a lot in those years, drifted apart in college, become better (me) and worse (her) people.  But all in all, I think Lenny is the one friend that I can be my weirdest, nerdiest, and most gluttonous with, all at the same time, and not feel self-conscious.  I can make snide comments about Lauren Conrad, mime a scene from church camp, and quote lines from Twelfth Night without explanation, and because her brain stores everything but cardinal directions, she'll pick up the references and laugh-- because we were great friends back then in junior high, when we were at our weirdest, nerdiest, and most gluttonous.

Reason #8 Why I Should Not Go to Med School

Moi: … and CAD or whatever that is.

Sister Claire: CAD-- cardiovascular disease.

Moi: No, cardiovascular artery disease?

Sister Claire: Right, artery, that's it.

Moi: Wait, it says here it's coronary artery disease.


(later, discussing the talk "55-Year Old Man with Weakness")

Sister Claire: I'm guessing it's RA (rheumatoid arthritis).

Moi: Really?  I would've gone with lupus (if it's good enough for House…).

Sister Claire: Or maybe he's always been weak and just didn't notice until now.

The world should thank us for not being doctors.

No Greater than the Master

Yet the world does not reward those who are not doctors. 

(Trying to show Doc Query how to convert a file to PDF)

Moi: You don't have Adobe on your computer?

Doc Query: No.  Why doesn't my computer have anything?  Do you make more money than me?

Moi: Yes.  I have more facebook friends, too.  Do you have EndNote Twelve?

Doc Query: Twelve!?  What happened to Eleven?  What do I need Twelve for?

Moi: All the cool kids have it.

Doc Query: Yeah, but I have you [to do that stuff].

Touche, Query, touche.

Frozen Chosen

Gather ye time pieces while ye may,
my hands are a knocking,
this same watch that ticks today,
tomorrow won't be tocking.

Earlier last week I reported that my faithful watch of twelve years had suffered a dead battery and that my world was coming to shreds. Save for the occasional battery replacement, I have woken up to its alarm every day for twelve year. The only relationships that can top the watch in terms of length and consistency are God, parents, brother, and security pillow. This morning, I finally took it to "shop," but was told that no battery could salvage its weary soul. It was hopeless before it even got there, and was pronounced dead on arrival.

Because I have literally been walking around all weekend without any sense of time and date, this afternoon, Mother gave me her watch for the time being. I was in the garage, about to get into my dad's car and head back into Boston. "The light has stopped working," she said off-handedly, "so it might need a battery change soon." "Well, I only need it for a few weeks." Ah, famous last words.

Two minutes later, before Father's car was even out of the driveway, the watch was dead in my hands. I merely pushed a button and it started buzzing, then everything went blank. I wonder if sundials will now crumble at my finger tips.

That's Moi: 2, Father Time: 0

Autumn Chicken

I've known Mac since freshman year. We've spent hundreds of hours in lab, in class, in Thorne, and even more doing problem sets; and though we've discussed the Red Sox through despair, bewilderment, and now downright cockiness, I never expected to some day be eating dim sum with him, even if I've been craving to yum cha for months now. So when he shot me an email this week saying that Vannie wanted to go, I was a little suspicious. Sure this was a great idea, but would we eat real Chinese food? I'd been burned before, even in Chinatown, forced to order noodles and fat dumplings when I wanted fried intestines and bouncy meatballs.

To brace myself, I started out cautious and grilled Vannie and her friend on their eating habits. I had to know what I was getting into. But lunch today was like a little Yom Kippur bonus from God, as if he said, "Now that your sins have been atoned, take the long weekend off, and here, hang out with these folks for a few hours." They had all the right answers. None of us spoke Cantonese but we could order all that we wanted in Cantonese. We were agressive flaggers of waitresses. Knowledgeable of Asian cuisine. And every food we liked was fair game- ha gao, siu mai, pai gwut... even turnip cakes? Yes. ... even... chicken feet?

Uh oh. Mac said that he wouldn't. Vannie was nonjudgmental but noncommittal. But her friend Lena? "I love chicken feet!" "Oh, thank God." "I think I found my soul mate."

And so it was. Though I'm sure I was invited to lunch just so Mac would have someone to talk baseball with while Vannie caught up with Lena, we had an awesome morning of eating and talking about eating. Satisfying our stomachs and nostalgia while the sun beamed outside, then afterwards, going to Footlocker where we ran our covetous little hands through rows of Chucks and Air Jordans we can't afford (while reminiscing the days when we all had funky sneakers paid by parental dollars)-- doing all that made me think that maybe I don't need to run for the West coast just yet. My friends here are all right.

Just a Jump to the Left

Boys and Girls, turn on your TiVos and DVRs (or VCR if you've got them) and tune into the Discovery Channels "Time Warp," which starts next week. And when you see an episode later down the line in which a guy gets shot with blanks or another has a chair break over his back or people fall or something, remember that I made it all possible by giving two guys a couch to crash on for a night (they're friends of my brothers, and one found a bed with someone to sleep on, but that wasn't part of the original plan...). Granted, all I could offer was 1 sleeping bag, 2 thin blankets, a pink Hello Kitty pillow (not mine!), and a section of the couch each, but I'd still like it to be noted that that was my gesture of the kindness for the week. Tomorrow, I can go back to kicking pigeons in the face.

Electric Slide

High fives and using the word 'baby' a lot.  Sometimes doing the two at the same time.  Docs Nice and Query often dance around that fine dot between inappropriate, nerdy, awkward, and a little bit cool albeit showing their age.  And they do the dance as well as, well, two middle aged Jewish doctors who work in research...

Miscellany Thursday

Cows make me smile.  As do homemade meals from Mom, even if it's not my mom.  Landlady Chang's mom visited today and the food was delish.  I always feel like I'm very not myself when I talk to people's parents, especially when our conversations go really well.  But parents always have such good food, so it seems like a worthwhile trade off.  As for my own mother, she called me at work today to tell me about the produce sales at the Vietnamese grocer.  Thanks, Mom!

I love craisins, but hate that little bit that always gets stuck on the roof of my mouth. 

Yesterday, Young Bo' asked me where the city of Gary was and without hesitation, I answered Indiana.  I have no idea why I know this.  It sounds like a well known place.  If anyone could tell me why I would or should know Gary, Indiana, I'd be much obliged.  I don't like it when these tidbits work their way into my mind.  They're the reason why I can't remember which lids go with which tupperware containers, no matter how often my mom explains the Ziploc mneomonic to me.

One Man's Trash

I get that dumpster diving is a ludicrous and even disgusting idea to most of you. It's unnecessary, unsanitary, and just not a good idea. I agree with all of that. But the free food at the independent bookstore always tastes so nice...

I watched a movie called "Made in LA" tonight. It bore surprisingly little resemblance to J.Lo's great "Maid in Manhanttan." Instead, it was about the fight of sweatshop workers in America against Forever 21. The themes and stories--poverty, oppression, immigration-- are nothing new. But perhaps that's what made it so powerful to me, knowing that countless hundreds of thousands and millions of workers are struggling every day. During the screening, I was conflicted between wanting to make everyone I know watch this movie and not wanting to see one more minute of it for fear that I would lose my eyes to bawling too much. And even now, I know that blogging about it will only cause people to roll your eyes or at best, to be mildly curious. It's weird what gets to one person and what gets to another. But weird is easy. What's hard is knowing what to do now that I know better. Damn you conscience and responsibility, why must you make the world such a difficult place to live in?